Five Star's 306th Great Blog Roundup Is Brought to You By Helen Macdonald
This week's Five Star great blog roundup is brought to you by grief and preparation for it, sacrilege, an uncle who can't really be gone, sex education in the 1980s, the power in shoes and a father's love, abuse and healing, a eulogy for a famous father, and Helen Macdonald:
Every once in a while, a roundup takes on its own theme. I don't know if it's the zeitgeist or chemicals in the water supply, but this is one of those weeks. Before I even read the nominees, I chose the above author quote, and then 5/7ths of this week's featured entries followed suit without any manipulation on my part, revolving around grief over close family members. Grab some tissues and let the feelings in, because while the stories are hard to take at times, they are also affirming and powerful.
We’re not the only ones who do this, are we? Not the only ones who storyboard the deaths of our loved ones while we make dinner, take out the garbage, run the evening bathwater? It could happen at any time, we imagine, and so we’d best think it through, so as not to be completely unprepared.
This is my confession, this is my plea. Today, may our keyboards lead us to good and not to temptation. May the Internet grant us the grace of favorites and likes abounding. And also RT you.
I am surprised by the irrationality of grief. My mind is at war — I still expect I will open my door and see his car parked illegally out front.
My sex education began on an ominous afternoon in the fifth grade when, without warning, the girls and boys were split up and maneuvered into two different rooms to watch a “health film.”
Looking back, it was all very shady.
I was seven or eight when they came in the mail: those pale pink, five-sizes-too-big, high-heeled sandals. My father’s sister in Texas found them at a garage sale for fifty cents and guessed her niece would love them.
Love them I did.
My father was the most powerful person I knew—brilliant, he graduated high school when he was sixteen. He became a lawyer by the time he was twenty-three. He was the visionary of our family, the hope. In a world that relegated our blackness with unworthiness, he was proof that we—because of our proximity to him—are remarkable.
But my father also molested me.
Not many people have the chance to stay up half the night after their dad dies, reading articles about what he meant to people. I’m lucky that I had all of the Internet helping me sift through memories of my dad over the last few days.
Please come back and share good writing with us over the coming week to be featured on the next Five Star. Submit it by Tuesday at midnight CST to nominate it for inclusion in the next roundup.
And because you are a fan of finding good, new writing on the internet: